


make sure the light defeated the dark

by pettigrace



Series: sing it like a hummingbird [6]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Episode: s05e06 Mortal Khanbat, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss, M/M, Mick Rory Needs a Hug, Missing Scene, Post-Oculus (DC's Legends of Tomorrow), Relationship Study, Sad, loom of fate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24874570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettigrace/pseuds/pettigrace
Summary: The Loom of Fate opens old wounds.
Relationships: Mick Rory & Leonard Snart, Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, Sara Lance & Leonard Snart, Sara Lance & Mick Rory, Sara Lance & Mick Rory & Leonard Snart, Sara Lance/Leonard Snart
Series: sing it like a hummingbird [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757428
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	make sure the light defeated the dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SophiaCatherine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaCatherine/gifts).



> **Warning:** This focusses heavily on Snart's death, so if dying and mourning is a sensitive topic for you, I'd try to avoid this. Sorry!
> 
> The setting of this fic is a bit wobbly, but it's roughly between "Mortal Khanbat" and "Mr Parker's Cul-de-Sac", since we don't know when exactly anyone tells _Mick_ the truth about Charlie. I'm also mad at the writers for just glossing over the _parallels_ to season 1 that one can see and I'm positive that, if they paid more attention to Mick as a person, his reacting so vividly to the hate mail Rebecca Silver got could be caused by trying to escape other emotional pain. *sighs* It's not easy being a Mick stan...
> 
> I've put the relationships as both romantic and platonic ones because you can choose how to read them, I kept it vague in that regard. 
> 
> The title comes from Calum Scott's "You Are The Reason".

It’s not a rare occasion that one would find Mick in the kitchen, nursing a bottle of beer as he stares at the white of the Waverider’s wall, even if it’s the middle of the night. He’s been known to keep odd hours, first due to his lifestyle as a criminal and then because, apparently, a writer can be struck by ideas no matter the time. But then again, it’s not like anyone can even keep up with what time it really is. Gideon _claims_ that she’s keeping a steady schedule, but sometimes Sara isn’t so sure. She suspects that after an especially tiring mission, the ship’s AI could easily be manipulating the lights to ensure the team gets enough sleep. Secretly, she appreciates it.

Mick comes here often, she knows, to bask in the rare moments of silence, to enjoy a drink without anyone commenting on it. It’s the obvious reason. She also knows that he comes here to think. To meditate over something, almost. He usually keeps his thoughts to himself unless they’re some comment towards someone, an insult maybe. Sometimes he writes his thoughts down, she imagines, but she can’t be sure. She’s only made it through half an audiobook before the last crisis struck; she should probably change that. It would be a lie if she claimed she isn’t curious about Mick’s writing. 

Though he keeps to himself, at least audibly, Sara likes to imagine that she’s gotten quite good at reading Mick’s thoughts. Not the exact ones - no, Mick is too full of surprises for anyone to really guess accurately what’s going on in his head - but the overall direction of them. She’s fairly certain that she knows what he’s thinking about right now because it’s the same for her.

That, and because she can see him touch his necklace through the fabric of his Henley shirt. She doesn’t know when exactly he’d started wearing his ring like that, but she’d caught glimpses of it from time to time and felt a twinge in her heart every time.

“Mick,” she greets him. It’s the middle of the night (assumably) and she _had_ tried to sleep, so it’s not an act she puts on when her voice wraps itself carefully around his name. She doesn’t mean to startle him either, but she knows that takes more than a surprised greeting. 

He doesn’t actively hide what he’s been doing. It takes a moment before his hand sinks, slowly, and he lifts his eyes to nod at her. “Birdie.”

The old nickname. Usually she’s _Boss_ to him now, but she can see why he refrains from using it at the moment.

“Mind if I join you?” She asks, gesturing at the empty seats around him.

Mick shrugs in return, which is as good an invite as anything else. If he truly wanted to be left alone, then he wouldn’t mind saying her so. Quite colourfully, probably.

Instead of sinking down at the table, though, Sara crosses the room and heads for the fabricator. Before she reaches it, Gideon speaks up, “The usual, Captain?” The AI’s voice isn’t booming, which might be caused by the time, but it isn’t as cheerful as usual either. ike she can sense the mood. Once again, Sara wonders if they’re underestimating Gideon sometimes.

“That’d be great,” she answers quietly. Only seconds later, a glass of Chhaang is ready, as if it’s been waiting there the whole time. Maybe it has. She could imagine that Gideon prepared it before even asking.

Mick’s looking at the wall again when she finally pulls back her chair, but he scrunches up his nose anyway. He knows what her usual is; he’s even tried it, once, and declared it to be an abomination. He likes American beer, though, so his opinion doesn’t weigh anyhow, in her opinion. And she couldn’t care less about it. Chhaang isn’t about the taste, it’s about what she connects with it. It reminds her of the good parts of Nanda Parbat. 

And something sentimental seems like the right thing at the moment.

They don’t say anything for a while. Instead, they just sit their and nurse their drinks more than actually take a sip from them. And even though just about anything hangs heavy in the air, it doesn’t feel any awkward. She and Mick, they don’t need many words. They never have. She doubts that she knows even half of his story - and he knows even less of hers - but he’s one of her closest friends nonetheless. It’s part of their friendship; not probing too much, not asking too many questions. It’s an understanding that happens on itself, based on having each other’s backs so many times.

Sometimes, though, it just needs a little patience until Mick says whatever is on his mind. Sara knows it’s usually for the better to give him space, let him sort out his thoughts and how to phrase them rather than to say too much before he gets the chance. It’s one of the things he and Ray clash about regularly, with the scientist being his bubbly self. It’s proven itself to be a good thing that she’s learnt patience back at the League. It makes it easier to sit there, nip at her drink and wait for the inevitable.

“He didn’t die for this.” Mick doesn’t look at her when he finally speaks. He doesn’t reach for his necklace either; not this time. He keeps his eyes fixed on the wall, probably because it’s the safest choice. It’s blank, it doesn’t show him pity or poor attempts at empathy. It’s a canvas waiting to be filled with his thoughts.

Sara waits a beat, unsure if he’ll add anything. Then she shakes her head. “No, he didn’t,” she agrees, her voice quiet. It’s been a while since they’ve talked about it-- about _him_ , so directly instead of making an off-hand comment and drop it quickly again. Maybe they should have. Maybe it wouldn’t sting like this then.

Sara knows death. She’s more than familiar with it. She’s had people die on her watch, die in her arms, die by her hands. She’s died _herself_. But _Leonard…_ It’s been different. It’s been a sacrifice, just as much as Oliver’s has been, and it had accounted to something. At least they thought it had. It hadn’t been _worth_ it, but it did have a reason and effect. That’s been a comforting thought during the past years.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Mick give in and reach up to his chest again. Maybe it’s a mechanic movement, because he doesn’t bat an eye,even with her so close. 

“ _Loom of Fate_ ,” he sneers, surprising her a little with that, and taps against the ring. “ _Spear of Destiny_.” Another tap. “ _Oculus_.”

She bites back a wince at that. It’s been easy to separate Leonard from the Spear of Destiny, even if _some_ version of him played a major role in the conflict. It hadn’t been the _same_ thing, not really, but she can see how it’s added to the associations in Mick’s brain. It hadn’t been the Leonard Snart that she knew, not even close. It hadn’t been the one who’d talked her out of killing a child. It hadn’t been the one who was willing his own hand to save a friend. It hadn’t been a man who had caught glimpses of a different, better life. That man had been as much of _her_ Leonard Snart as Leo had been.

Mick, on the other hand… he’d known Leonard long before any of that, possibly even longer than she’s been alive for. It’s been a familiar version of his partner to him. Mick never even had a chance to get over Leonard’s - _his_ Leonard’s - death for longer than she’d realized.

“He _died_ ,” Mick repeats. “But it keeps _happening_.” He lifts his beer to his mouth. It’s been a statement. Not a question, not a plea. Just telling it as it is.

And in return, Sara doesn’t know what to say. She can’t claim that it’s not the same because this time is _feels_ so much like back then. Maybe not from the outside - how could you compare ancient _goddesses_ to the invention of a group of old men? - but from the overall feeling. They’ve fought someone trying to spin other people’s fates before, multiple times, and Mick is _right_. It never _stops_.

She looks at him, trying to find the answer that he wants - that he _needs_ \- itched into his features, but they’re as non-descriptive as ever. Mick Rory knows how to wear a mask even if he doesn’t have a costume. But despite his expression being so stoic, his movements and words say _so_ much while being _so_ limited.

She wonders, briefly, if Rebecca Silver ever wrote about a thief trying to live by his own rules. She could ask Mona, but she knows better. The question is if he _succeeds_.

“We’re gonna make sure that it ends,” she promises him. Not just Mick, but the thief as well. She doesn’t know how, not yet, but they wouldn’t be the Legends if they couldn’t come up with _some_ idea. It will be a wild and bumpy ride, like always, but it _will_ work. She’s positive of that. She _has_ to be. “His death-- it won’t have been for nothing.”

She watches as Mick presses his palm against the ring, putting it flush against his burnt skin. Does he even feel it there, or is it a constant on his mind, too, the memory of it hanging there a conscious one time and time again? He smoothens the fabric above it before turning his head lightly.

The determination is visible in his eyes as they level on her, a certain amount of fury woven into it. “It fucking better,” he answers, a threat aimed at possibly anyone and anything that could be listening.

Silently, Sara agrees. It better.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Please leave a comment!**  
>  If you liked this, come check out my [tumblr](http://joanthangroff.tumblr.com) or talk to me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/Ll4MDUNBAR). _Definitely_ hit me up if you wanna join my quest to give the writers a stern talking to about the lack of focus they put on Mick Rory.


End file.
